Channel 8
by eyesocketsandsuits
Summary: [[ Franada Oneshot ]] France looks up from his book, and he can feel the smile playing across his lips. Canada stands in the doorway, remote hanging loosely in his hand, gazing at the television. He's managed to pull on his pants, but France is delighted to see that he hasn't gone searching for his shirt.


**Anonymous said:** The toupee lies prompt for Franada please? Welcome back!

 **The weird nickname is because they're speakin' in French. Technically it's "** _Mon ours_ **."**

* * *

"I can't watch Channel 8 anymore. Lloyd Lansing wears a toupee. It's like every newscast begins with a lie."

France looks up from his book, and he can feel the smile playing across his lips. Canada stands in the doorway, remote hanging loosely in his hand, gazing at the television. He's managed to pull on his pants, but France is delighted to see that he hasn't gone searching for his shirt.

"Darling, is it really economical to be worrying about hair-pieces in a time like this?" France stretches on the couch, sprawled on the cushions. "Had I known he offended you, I wouldn't have put it on."

Canada shuffles over to the couch, leans against it, doesn't fall onto France. He looks tired. France liked him better last night, when he was sprawled on the sheets, face relaxed and body pliable. The daylight brings out another side to him.

Canada makes a face. "Well, I would like at least a few minutes of someone pretending they aren't lying." He rubs his eyes with his thumb and index finger, and France wants to make that expression disappear. "Sorry."

"For what?" France sits up, grabs the hem of Canada's pants and tugs him closer. "You don't have to apologize for being stressed."

"No," Canada mumbles, steps away from France and towards his kitchen. "I'm sorry for everything."

France watches Canada's back, the way his shoulders move as he prepares coffee. France had to grab his sweater, it was already too cool for his liking, but Canada didn't seem bothered. The only noise is the opening of the show.

 _Reports indicate that a number of European nations have declared an unofficial war on North America, after—_

"Shut it off," Canada calls.

Frances turns down the volume.

 _-and there continues to be unrest in the land-grab over what was formally Russia's—_

"France," Canada says, sharp and loud.

France obliges, finally, shuts the TV off, and stands. He pads over to the kitchen and leans against the counter. Canada doesn't say anything, but he turns and gives a quick smile. Hands France the coffee, slides to sit on the ground, takes a sip.

"Lies." Canada shakes his head. "All of it."

France sighs. "You can't deny the tensions between us. Personally, I adore you, my bear, but my people? My government? They are suspicious. They are angry. And me? I'm angry too. I can't help it."

Canada takes another sip of his coffee. "It wasn't my fault."

"But you didn't exactly help, did you?" France puts the coffee on the counter. "We shouldn't talk about work at home."

Canada contemplates this. "Are you going to declare war?"

France examines his nails. He hadn't filed them in ages, and he couldn't remember the last time he had used lotion. War always ruined his hands. It took year for them to get back to how he liked them. Maybe Canada had lotion.

Music. Canada needed music, not Channel 8.

"I don't know, my bear. Ultimately it will depend on how your brother acts. How your government corresponds." France rubs his fingers together. "What _you_ say, darling."

Another sip.

France thinks about taking that back, but it's true. And maybe he doesn't have the energy to lie about it, anymore. He was already playing the diplomat to England for Canada, he didn't need to tread softly around Canada.

"Unofficial war," Canada scoffs. "That's over the passenger plane."

France shrugs. "An unhappy accident. Drones are popular, and we didn't want to take any chances."

Canada hums. "War."

"I don't like it, either. I would prefer to have meetings, talk about our infrastructure, country relations. I don't like these clandestine meetings any more than you do." France walks over in front of Canada, sinks to the ground. "Oh, my love."

Canada sighs and pulls his knees to his chest. France kisses his knee and rests his chin on top.

"Everyone goes through rough patches," France says.

"Yes, but usually those don't involve murdering one another's populace." Canada laughs, lightly. "Sorry, that wasn't funny. God, how am I ever going to fight against you?"

"Don't think about that. Where do you want to go next time you visit?"

Canada looks like he's going to object, but then his expression eases and he smiles. "Somewhere with people. I want to just do something fun."

"We could bar hop."

Canada laughs, places his coffee next to him on the ground. "You know I can't hold anything. We could order breakfast in a bunch of places. Or go out for dinner."

Someone's phone rings, and Canada shifts his weight and digs through his pocket. France pulls back as he answers.

"America," Canada says in English, and France thinks his voice is so much prettier in French. "No, I'm not busy."

He glances at France and stands, disappears into his office. France takes a while before he stands. He takes Canada's coffee and washes out the cup, dries it, places it back in the cabinet. He loved Canada's house; it was so neat and practical, with little flashes of comics here or video games there.

Outside, the leaves were already turning. France watches them through the window, hears snatches of conversation.

 _-not yet—_

 _-not practical, America, use—_

 _-a war—_

 _-the war—_

France wanders back into the living room, sits on the couch, and turns the television back on.


End file.
